


A Gamin's Anatomy Lesson

by Bobcatmoran



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Gen, Humor, Medical stuff, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-12-11 07:22:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11709609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bobcatmoran/pseuds/Bobcatmoran
Summary: A Halloween fic, featuring Combeferre, Navet, and a disembodied leg.





	A Gamin's Anatomy Lesson

It was a perfect fall day, the weather sunny, crisp and cool, but not so cold that Combeferre was reluctant to open his windows. This worked to his advantage, as he had an excellent leg to dissect in preparation for his anatomy exam, and his landlady had, on occasion, expressed strong disapproval at the smell caused by some of his more hands-on studies.

Privately, he thought that if she objected to the occasional odor caused by scientific studies, she should perhaps not rent to medical students. Such thoughts were far from his mind, however, until he received a knock on his door. Wiping his hands on his apron, Combeferre steeled himself for another lecture about sanitation, miasmas, and various disapproving looks at the jar of leeches on the bookshelf, the collection of pinned bugs on the desk, and a leg — a  _human leg_  on the kitchen table.

The visitor, however, was not his landlady. Rather, it was a small boy, wearing a shirt made for a man twice his size, ragged trousers, no shoes whatsoever, and an abundance of thick, blond hair. “Afternoon, m'sieur,” the gamin said. “Got a message for you, from a tall blond fellow, over by the Cafe Musain.”

“Oh?” Combeferre asked.

“He says that he’s got some poems for you to look over. Dunno why it seemed so urgent, but there you are.”

Mentally, Combeferre translated that. The pamphlet that Prouvaire and Enjolras had written was ready to be brought to the printer’s.

“He also said you’d give me ten sous.”

“Well, fair enough. Come in, I’ll get you your speaking fee.”

While Combeferre searched for his purse, the gamin took a look around the room. “Is that a real leg?”

“Yes, it’s perfectly real.”

“Where’d you get it? Did you kill someone?”

“No, don’t be absurd.”

“Where’d you get it then? Did one of your friends kill someone? Did the blond guy do it? He looked pretty fierce. I’ll bet he could kill someone.”

“No, no one killed anyone, for heaven’s sake. I split the purchase of a cadaver with a couple of my classmates.”

“A cab who?”

“Cadaver,” Combeferre said, pronouncing the word clearly and precisely. “A dead body for dissection.”

“Wow,” the gamin said. “You mean you can buy a body? How much?”

“About six francs,” Combeferre said.

“Hm,” the gamin said looking thoughtful. “Where’s it at? If you bring them a dead body, what do they pay?”

“I’m, er, not quite certain of those sort of details of the supply end of the chain,” Combeferre said. “I suppose you could ask at the Amphithéâtre d'Anatomie — the fellows who bring the carts would know. But it’s a gruesome business, unhealthful for a child to be doing.”

“Unhealthful yourself. I’m not the one who’s got a leg on my table,” the gamin retorted. “What’ve you got it for, anyhow?”

“I have an anatomy exam tomorrow, and I’m still weak on the bones of the foot.”

“Can I see?”

“I suppose.” Combeferre pulled a chair up to the table, and the gamin clambered up on it and knelt, in order to get a better view as Combeferre carefully sliced through the foot to reveal the bones.

“Those are some wicked sharp knives you got there,” the gamin observed. “Where do you get them sharpened? Because I know there’s this shop down next to Rue d'Orléans, and the guy there, he does that, and I make deliveries for him sometimes. He’s nice, but you have to go in when he’s there, because his ‘prentice don’t like other people doing the deliveries. I think it’s because he’s sweet on the girl who works at the hat shop down the street, and he wants to go out and flirt with her, but he can’t do that unless he’s going to go on a delivery.”

Combeferre blinked, startled at this sudden wave of gossip. “I…er…I sharpen my knives myself.”

“Oh, well, you’re very good at it,” the gamin said, approvingly. He looked at the foot, bones now laid bare. He then held his hand out in front of him, frowned at it, then looked back at the foot. “The bones sort of look like fingers,” he said. “How come the toes are so long when they’re all bones, but they aren’t when they’re your foot?”

“Well, you have muscle and skin over most of them, holding them together,” Combeferre said. “Here, flex your foot. There, you can see the underlying structure.”

“Huh,” the gamin said.

“And here, you’re quite right, the feet and hands are very similar in structure. In fact, the names of the bones are even quite similar. You have your metatarsals here in the foot,” Combeferre said, indicating the five long, thin bones, “and the metacarpals here in your hand,” he said, tracing down his hand from the knuckles down the the wrist. “And the phalanges,” he said, wiggling his fingers. “Proximal, middle, and distal,” he said, pointing to the joints going out toward his fingertips, “and on the feet, the same phalanges: proximal, middle, and distal,” he said, pointing to them on the foot.

“How come the meta-bones get different names and the fingers are called the same?” the gamin asked.

“Because whoever named them apparently ran out of creativity by the time they got to the fingers and toes,” Combeferre said. “And the bones in your ankle, here, are the tarsals, and in the wrist, they’re the carpals. Add the Greek 'meta,’ or 'beyond,’ and you get the metatarsals and metacarpals, the bones beyond the tarsals and carpals.”

“You’re right, they were uncreative,” the gamin agreed. “Do monkeys have bones like that? I mean, are they tarsals or carpals in their feet? Because I saw the monkeys in the Jardin des Plantes, and they’ve got feet like hands.”

“I think they’re still tarsals, since they’re still feet. You’ve got quite the makings of a naturalist in you, very observant.”

“Thanks! I think.”

“I don’t suppose you know how to read, do you? I’m having trouble with the tarsals, and could use someone to quiz me on them.”

“Sort of,” the gamin said. “I know the letters in my name anyhow — my friend Gavroche, he taught me that. N-A-V-E-T,” he said, tracing the letters out on the table. “Navet, that’s me. And I know some other letters, too.”

“Well, Navet, here,” Combeferre said, flipping his anatomy text open to a dog-eared page. “Can you tell which of those labels says 'Talus’?”

“That starts with a ’T,’ right? So…this one?” Navet tentatively pointed towards a large bone in an overhead view.

“Good, that’s right! How about 'cuboid’?”

“What letter does it start with?”

“'C.’”

“I know that one! That's…um…there’s two of them that start with 'c.’”

“Oh, right, well, that one there, that says 'cuboid,’ C-U-B-O-I-D,” Combeferre said, spelling it out, and then sounding out the word as he traced the letters. “And that big one there, your heel, that’s the calcaneus.”

“This one here, that starts like my name, what’s that say?”

“That’s the navicular,” Combeferre said.

“Navicular,” Navet echoed, nodding. “So that’s that one here?” he said, pointing to the foot on the table.

“Right you are! Are you certain you don’t want to take my anatomy exam for me?” Combeferre asked, smiling.

“Nah, they’ll know I’m not you,” Navet said. “Too short.”

“Alas,” Combeferre said. “I suppose this means that I still have to learn the tarsels. If you care to aid me, I’ll double your speaking fee, and see about getting you a good supper. Is that a deal?”

Navet eyed Combeferre’s outstretched hand suspiciously, then reached out and shook it. “Deal.” Then he added, “I’d have done it for free, you know. This is the most interesting thing I’ve seen all week — and no taking it back! We shook on it.”


End file.
